FrUK Holiday Week 2017
by Actually Marvelous
Summary: My entries for FrUK Holiday Week 2017 on tumblr. The prompts were "I'll be home for the holidays", mistletoe, pottertalia, snow, fantasy AU, ice skating, and New Years' Kiss. I wrote human AU, canonverse, Slytherin!UK and Beauxbatons!France (Goblet of Fire setting), High School AU, Magical Strike AU and Nyotalia AU. Happy holidays!
1. Home for the holidays

**Valérie-Monaco**

 **Michelle-Seychelles**

 **Human AU**

 **TW: Surgery mention**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers. Himaruya Hidekaz does.**

* * *

 **23** **rd** **December, morning.** Francis Bonnefoy-Kirkland looked out the window of his hotel room to see a thin layer of snow cover the ground. He was currently visiting his little sister, Valérie, in Monaco. He just hoped he could get back to London soon, where his husband and their three children waited at home. Due to school and Arthur's job as an English teacher he couldn't take them with him.

The Frenchman sighed when he thought back to the skype call with his family the previous evening. Matthew had been even quieter than usual, Michelle had a rare frown on her face, and Alfred had demanded he come home for Christmas. Arthur had at least tried to seem understanding, but Francis had been married to him for almost twelve years now. He could tell when the Brit was upset. But Valérie had no one else to help her right now. She needed the support he scarcely provided. Francis looked at the clock again. The visiting hours at the hospital would start soon. He grabbed his coat and got up.

Arthur was ordering takeout from _Wang's Asian Culinary Arts Shop_ in the evening. Francis was usually in charge of cooking, but of course, he was gone. Arthur, a disaster in the kitchen and Gordon Ramsay's worst nightmare himself, had to pay for pre-made food, as overpriced as Wang's was. But after the last time they ordered from _Vargas' Pizzeria_ , he'd take his chances.

By the time it arrived, Matthew was home from ice hockey practice, Alfred tapped with his fork against his plate, and Michelle had turned the volume on her iPod up to max.

His second son spoke up first. "Dad? Do you think Papa will be home for Christmas?"

Arthur had known the question would come up like it had the last day, but he still didn't have the answer. "Alfred, you know your father has to be there for your aunt. He doesn't know how long her surgery will take. Maybe he will be home. He doesn't want to be gone either, you see." The dinner continued in silence, a sure sign things weren't normal. If they were, Alfred would have already chattered Arthur's mind off his troubles.

At night, Valérie was finally being wheeled out on her hospital bed. The anaesthetics were still in her system and she wasn't going to wake up in the next few hours, but the doctors were confident there were no complications. Francis could feel the metaphorical burden fall off his shoulders.

He still stayed until his sister returned to consciousness, taking only a few breaks to get something to drink or eat, and even slept a bit. It wasn't until five in the morning of Christmas Eve that Valérie opened her eyes and greeted him with a hoarse voice.

" _Bonjour_ , Francis", she said weakly. Her brother only smiled.

"How are you?"

"Better. I'm a bit thirsty, but I feel okay."

"I'll get the nurse to bring you some water, then", Francis pressed the button used to alert the hospital staff to the patients' needs. A few minutes later, Valérie nipped at a glass.

"Thanks for staying here with me. I know it was really late notice…", Valérie trailed off.

"It's nothing. I can't leave my little sister alone, can I?"

"You should be with your family." Francis only nodded. He _did_ miss his favourite four people in the world…

"I'm not going to keep you here. I'll be fine now. I just needed-"

"The support?"

"That, and someone to manage my affairs in case things did not go as planned." Francis hadn't wanted to bring up the dangers the surgery had entailed, but Valérie had done so herself.

"I'm glad it didn't come to this."

"Me too." The siblings lapsed into silence.

"Look Francis, maybe there's some last-minute flight. Go home. They need you, too."

"You're sure?" His sister nodded. "You're still going to visit us at Easter, like we arranged?"

Valérie agreed: "I should be all set by then. I guess this means we're seeing each other in spring next time."

"Until spring, then." Francis kissed her cheek and rose from the chair by his sister's bedside. The doctor came in at that point, so he said his final goodbye and pulled out his phone to compare different options of flights.

The only flight that would still go out to London that day stopped at Paris CDG. Francis' frustration and wish to come home peaked when he realized his second plane would be delayed. By three hours.

He'd still be home by about eight in the evening. At least. He might as well tell his family.

"Hey, Arthur", he phoned his husband.

"Francis?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Is Valérie alright?"

"Yes, surgery went fine. She'll even visit us in spring, like we decided."

"I'm glad. Where are you right now?"

"Charles de Gaulle. The air port."

"Wait, does that mean-"

"Yes, Arthur. I'll be home for the holidays." The voice on the other end lowered a bit. Then Francis heard loud cheering, likely his children.

"…Hurry up, frog." The Frenchman could hear Arthur's warmth seeping into his teasing words. Suddenly, he felt a lot lighter.

"…God, I love you so much." Francis couldn't wait to be home.


	2. Mistletoe

**Canonverse.**

 **Disclaimer: Hetalia is Himaruya Hidekaz's property, not mine.**

The Mistletoe. Curse that blasted thing! It was considered a harmless plant, not taking the myth about the Norse God Loki using a mistletoe to kill Balder into account. Couples were promised to have lasting and happy relationships if they kissed on Christmas underneath a branch (also a result of the myth). Oh boy did the personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland _loathe_ the plant. Or, he had until this year.

* * *

He already harboured a distaste for Christmas either way; nobody to spend it with, nothing to do and annoying Christmas Carols playing weeks in advance wherever he went. (And it were always the same ones, too.) So most of the time, England just tried to find a pub open on Christmas Eve and got smashed, if not in bars, he'd crack open one of the billion bottles of ancient alcohol he'd been gifted in his millennia as a nation and drink at home.

This year was no exception. The clock had been ten minutes past midnight when the beginning of what _did_ make this year exceptional occurred.

Prussia, completely shitfaced, stumbled into the pub.

England knew better than to inquire as to what he was doing in London on Christmas night. The alcohol meant the Christmas/end-of-the-year/annual Germanic family reunion had gone awfully. A reunion nobody ever invited England to, despite the fact that he was as closely related to them as the Scandinavians were. Why Prussia willingly left the mainland, though, would stay a mystery.

As would the reason for Drunk England to take pity on Drunk Prussia and offer him a round of beer. When the alcohol worked their tongues loose and they started to drown in each other's sympathy, things became blurry.

* * *

England woke up on Christmas morning with a pounding headache and a curtain of gold in his face. Despite being tired, hungover and angry, he could still tell who the owner of the hair was. France was feeling his forehead and gave him a disapproving look.

"You're awake?" Well, there had been warmer greetings in the past, even from his mortal enemy-friend-crush with impossibly blue eyes and blond hair. Then again, they usually didn't entail bringing his drunk ass home and all of that on Christmas.

England weakly grumbled an incoherent response to the question. Couldn't he just _leave_? Of course not. This was France. If the pure kindness of his heart was not sufficient to get him to stay and watch over his ancient foe, his desire for blackmail and gloating material would be.

God, he hoped it was only the first. He actually couldn't remember what had happened between "harmlessly" chugging alcoholic beverages down his throat with Prussia and his unpleasant awakening. A full-blown blackout. That hadn't happened in decades. Lord knew what he might have done under the influence.

"So you are." Wow, that voice was frosty. France was furious and didn't even try to hide it. England forced his eyes open again. After being shocked by the light, he'd squeezed them shut. The contours of his archenemy became more defined with every second.

Along with France's curves, he noticed for the first time that the Frenchman was holding a camera. Where had it come from? A sense of foreboding left England's mouth drying up. Only now did he realize he had a desperate thirst.

"Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Well, not if his mouth felt like the Sahara desert. That idiot. He wasn't sure whom of them he was referring to; France or his drunk self. The last sentence had confirmed he'd screwed up majorly.

"Water", England croaked out.

"Get it yourself." The Brit tried. Except he fell straight out of bed and to France's feet. Embarrassing. The sigh he received in return was admittedly deserved, but France pulled him up again. England felt disoriented and sick. At least he was standing now.

France dragged him to the bathroom first. Not a second too late, because he was hunched over the toilet and vomiting a few moments afterwards. The man went on to get him the water (old hypocrite. He'd told him he wouldn't be the one to bring it to England minutes ago) he desperately needed to wash the taste of his lunch from the previous day away and England soothed his throat with the cool liquid.

By then the Englishman felt well enough to search for some clean clothing and get properly dressed. He decided against showering until France was gone. Not when he could be walked in on at any point in time.

Now decent, England made his way downstairs. France was sitting on his favourite chair in his kitchen, a cup of instant coffee in his hands. The blonde sipped from it and grimaced. Obviously it wasn't the high-quality brew he was used to. England rarely drank coffee and the instant sufficed. At least France hadn't gone near his beloved tea or kettle.

Either way, the man had the camera in his lap. Whatever photos were on it, England needed to figure out a way to destroy all evidence they had been taken. For now, he'd try and gather information on last night's happenings.

England sat down on the opposite chair, waiting for France to address his presence. He didn't have to wait long.

" _Angleterre_ , do you remember anything of last night?"

"Only getting drunk and offering Prussia a round on me. Why are you here, frog?", England retaliated with a question of his own, which had been burning on the tip of his tongue since he'd woken up.

"Well, first _Allemagne_ left me a voice mail, asking if I'd seen his brother. I received a cryptic text message by _Prusse_ an hour after, telling me he was in London and drunk with you. I had to help poor little _Allemagne_ retrieve you two."

England nearly snorted at the thought of anyone calling Germany "little". Technically he was younger than any of them, but little was not a word anyone would use to describe the nation. A gentleman does not snort, however, so England refrained from making the ridiculous sound.

"Ah, did Prussia make it home safe?"

France nodded. "Not without a stern wording from his brother, but he was physically fine. Even if he was so drunk he could hardly stand and tried to punch _Allemagne_ , calling him ' _Österreich_ ' ." Apparently things had gone even worse than England originally assumed. He took it as an incentive to bring up what actually occurred with him.

"So Prussia is fine. What about me?"

"I'd say you're rather fine. You _are_ talking to me right now." France rarely used sarcasm (unless talking to England or America). But even then he tried to be more direct. The mentality of keeping their real thoughts to themselves was something nations with a history of monarchies were well-acquainted with, after centuries of life in court. Post-revolution, France had begun to despise it.

"Don't toy with me. What happened last night?", he asked again.

"I think I should show you. You wouldn't believe me." Oh God. England had been alive for dozens of centuries. He could imagine a lot, even compared to other nations. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know what had ensued on his drunken escapade. But better to hear it now than find out through whispers and pictures on the internet.

"By the way, a human you were having a drinking contest with took the pictures. I will have to give him the camera back." So that's where the photos came from.

France pressed the power button on the camera, searching for the beginning of pictures. England peered at the small display. A few pictures the Frenchman showed him weren't that bad. He was plastered, crying on Prussia's shoulder. He'd done worse before.

The next set consisted of him dancing on the countertop. Photo Prussia was obviously egging him on.

The snapshots were interrupted with one of an angry German. Germany was pulling his older brother off the barstool, while also trying to pry a beer bottle from Prussia's grasp.

Another followed of a somewhat dishevelled France. The nation seemed tired. Apparently last night's England had noticed his entry, because the next showed him back on the ground, conversing with France. The rest were France dragging Drunk England out of the pub. (Drunk England was also shamelessly checking out France's backside. Sober England hoped it didn't mean much for what transpired last night. No way had "the nation of love" not perceived the conspicuous looks.) A few more photos were just the bar and the apparent photograph taking a shitty selfie.

"That's not exactly unbelievable, Frog." The flush on France's face was far too obvious.

"Well, not that."

"France. Spit. It. Out", England hissed. The Frenchman sighed.

"Alright", France gave him a look, "but you're sure you don't remember anything?"

"I thought we were already past this. I can't even recall you and Germany coming in."

"Well, I was going to take you home. I know where your spare key is, after all." England had told him so on one of the countless times he had to be taken home by someone else after he'd gotten too tanked-up. (Likely a Fourth of July.)

"But you refused to cooperate. You just ran off and I had to go after you. When I found you, it took me a while to drag you back." France's voice lowered each sentence. He took a deep breath and placed the coffee cup he had finished long ago on the table.

"We were stopping under a streetlamp and then you pointed out that someone hung a mistletoe on it." Shit. What had he done? France continued.

"After that you-you kissed me."

"No", England said tersely, "no way. You're making things up. I can't have been that drunk. I don't know what you'd gain from such a joke." Deep down, he knew France probably hadn't invented it. This wasn't something the other man would jest about.

" _Angleterre_. We have known each other for centuries. I cannot believe you think I would claim something like this to prank you. Sex, maybe; but not a kiss or a love confession!" France looked as shocked as England felt. It seemed he hadn't intended to say the last part (yet). Oh no. **Oh no.**

This was a disaster. England had done everything in his power to keep his feelings for France concealed, for ages now. And he'd gone and ruined the careful mask of hate in a single drunken night. What was he going to do now? France _knew_.

 **Fuck**.

He knew the nation better than to think he would just let this information go.

 ** _Fuck_**.

Or that he wouldn't use it the next time they went to war. European Union and Entente Cordiale existed for now, but treaties were fickle as all of them were fully aware of. The allies and siblings of yesteryear could be the archenemies of tomorrow and the enemy of your enemy your friend or lover soon.

 ** _Fuckfuckfu-_**

England bolted. It was his house all right, but he couldn't stay in the room any longer. Not when he had France's face in close proximity. Not when he acknowledged he'd kissed that face, like he'd wanted to for so long. Like he wanted to still.

Correction, England tried to bolt. France had shot up from the chair and grabbed him by the sleeve.

"No, England. You don't get to leave. Not until we've talked about this." England partly registered France had called him by his real name, not the one he'd given him ( _Angleterre_ ). It meant serious business. Mechanically, he went back to the table and the Frenchman let go of him. Wait. He could do this. He was drunk. He could chalk it up to the alcohol.

"I don't see what we have to talk about. I was drunk, I didn't mean it. I can't even remember it. You should just forget it." Forget it, yes please. He was mentally beseeching France to do just that.

"Then, pray tell, why in all the times I took your drunk ass home, did you never do anything like this?" No such luck, it seemed. England was speechless. There was nothing he could tell him, anyway. Except the truth, maybe.

"Did you mean it at least?" France's glare softened a bit. Was England trying to trick himself or was there a hint of hope in his blue eyes?

"D-don't be ridiculous, Frog, of course not-", the Brit stammered.

"Just tell me the truth." Again, England remained silent. He couldn't admit it.

"Tell me already!" France brought his fist down on the table. England startled. It wasn't like the Frenchman at all.

France calmed himself a bit, and then carried on. "Because it's really fucked up to tell me something like this while drunk, when everyone knows _in vino veritas_ , drunk people always tell the truth", he choked up a bit, "and to serve me half-baked lies now when I'm hoping- when I-", he shut up at that. _Hoping_. That simple word had tilted England's world on its axis. Before England knew it, he pressed his lips against France's for the second time in two days.

France's lips were impossibly soft. Humans (or nations) couldn't have lips this soft, right? It had to be a dream. But it was warm and real and far better than any daydream England had ever had.

France's eyes flew open. Now that England was sober, he had expected it even less than last night. It was happening, though. His old enemy was kissing him. France closed his eyes and returned the kiss, deepening it.

England's hands tangled in France's beautiful hair. They were both enjoying the kiss, breaking apart only when they needed air. Both nations stayed close to each other, enjoying the happy glow.

"I meant it," England told France sincerely. "I love you. For centuries now. I was trying to keep it a secret, but-", France cut him off with a kiss of his own. He could get used to this.

"I love you too, _Angleterre. Je t'aime_."

* * *

Somehow, England didn't hate mistletoes quite as much after that day. Perhaps it was the fact he had someone to kiss under them nowadays. Or it was simply the fact that if he hadn't seen it that night, he'd never have taken that leap. He didn't want to credit the "Dutch Courage" or Prussia's drunken text, so the mistletoe would have to be responsible for his relationship with France.


	3. Pottertalia AU

**Pottertalia AU (Crossover with Harry Potter)-Slytherin! England and Beauxbatons! France**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or Harry Potter. The main Characters belong to Himaruya Hidekaz and the world plus a few background characters to J. K. Rowling.**

* * *

After everything that had transpired in the last three years since The Boy Who Lived Harry Potter had begun his magical education, Headmaster Dumbledore's newest plan was somehow tame and insane at the same time.

Three years ago, their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor with He Who Must Not Be Named on the back of his head attempted to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. Two years ago, the Chamber of Secrets was reopened and petrified multiple students while the DADA teacher turned out to be a fraud (unsurprisingly, seeing as he was incompetent beyond reasoning). And just last year Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban with the objective to kill Harry Potter. He'd even gotten into the Gryffindor Third Years' Dorm, despite Dementors patrolling Hogwarts grounds, and the DADA teacher was revealed as a werewolf at the end of the year.

With these hectic few years, you'd think a normal headmaster would try and ensure that the learning environment would be as average as possible. Not Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Greatest Wizard of his Time with a dozen titles, though. Instead, the Professor opted to recreate one of the most dangerous tournaments in Wizarding History, the Triwizard Tournament.

Never mind the fact that it was Arthur's seventh year and he just wanted peace. His O. W. L. year had been spent fearing for his fellow students' lives (he was a pure-blooded Slytherin. He was safe.) and then exams got cancelled. He, the other fifth years and the N. E. W. T. students of that school year were forced to take them during summer. Now with Harry Potter in any vicinity of danger things were bound to get messy.

But among all things, Arthur's biggest worry were the foreign students. Unlike the rest of his house, he did not particularly care for the Durmstrang students. They were rowdy and loud. The Beauxbatons students, on the other hand…

Honestly, what should he have expected. As a proper English wizard, he'd been raised to think of the French, muggle and magical folk alike, as prissy pansies. Somehow they'd gone and proved him right on all accounts. Especially that one, Francis Bonnefoy. The Frog had begun talking to him on the day of their arrival and if Arthur hadn't learnt to tell normal people apart from those with Veela blood, he would have bet he was at least half. No way could a wizard or witch be this impossibly beautiful. But it was just another of the billion things driving him crazy about the French wizard.

They were in the same year and Arthur had never met someone as pretentious or annoying or- he was running out of insults. And he wouldn't quit flirting with whomever he came across! (Above fifth year at least.) See? He was doing it again! Chatting up a sixth year Ravenclaw girl this time, right in front of him in the middle of the library. She twirled a lock of her brown hair and gave a bashful expression.

Fra The Frog was flamboyant, insufferable and far too handsome French for his own good.

Arthur was painfully aware that despite his best efforts at repressing his feelings, he'd developed a _crush_. Besides nerve-grating flirtatiousness and his tendency to tease him, Francis was also a kind, helpful, big-hearted individual with criminally good looks. It wasn't as though he stood a chance with amazingly gorgeous girls and boys of all three competing schools, whereas he was "plain with the ugliest eyebrows ever created"-as said by Francis himself, which didn't help at all. Why did everyone have to pick on his eyebrows? He'd even tried using different magical products to thin them, but no luck whatsoever. Arthur suspected his experimentation had actually worsened their state.

He wasn't surprised when search fever for a partner for the Yule Ball broke out and nobody thought to ask him. Neither was he particularly inclined to go to the dance. At least it gave him reason not to go home. He wouldn't be able to get any reading and studying done with his older brothers nearby.

Studying. Great starting point. Potions assignment. He was searching for books. That's why he was in the library to begin with. Arthur backed into the nearest aisle.

"Arthur!" Too late. Francis had spotted him already.

"I was looking for you all day!"

"Why would you?" Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"Do you have a date yet?"

"…Date?"

"For the ball, of course!" Wonderful. Even if he pretended he had a date, Francis would figure it out easily. Immediately followed by taunts, and it didn't take a genius to understand several would jab at Arthur's eyebrows.

"I'm not going."

"What?" Francis seemed shocked. "Isn't it mandatory?"

"I'll show up for ten minutes, get a drink, and leave. You don't need to have a date."

"But why? Dances are fun!" Why was the Frog so interested in him going to the bloody ball? He had no reason to, and that was exactly what Arthur told him.

"Besides, who are you going with?" Maybe his question would throw Francis off and he would leave him alone.

"No one yet." Seriously? Francis had to be taking the mickey out of him.

"So you haven't been asked by anyone yet?" Arthur was using sarcasm. Obviously.

"I have. I just don't want to go with any of them."

"Well, who do you want to go with?" Francis' melodramatic sigh gnawed on his nerves.

"I had someone in mind, but he doesn't seem interested in the dance." He? That was a bit more noteworthy.

"Ah, who is it?" Arthur was just humouring him at that point, and it was evident. He didn't like Francis' sly smirk, however.

"You." Arthur spluttered at that word.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" The Frog seemed genuinely curious. "You asked me. I wanted to know if you had a date because I would like to be yours."

"As if. Stop joking."

"But I'm not." Francis' expression turned slightly hurt.

"Really?" _No Arthur. Don't be hopeful. And for the love of Merlin, don't give off the impression that you're eager._ , Arthur thought to himself.

" **Yes!** And? Will you go with me?" Arthur was still hesitant. While the Frenchman appeared to mean it, he was also a brilliant actor.

"Um… okay?"

"Great! I'll see you at the ball, then?" Francis smiled warmly. Arthur tried to ignore the beating in his chest.

"Yes." Francis pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Bye, Arthur!"

"Bye, Frog." He couldn't keep it to himself. But the moment Francis sped through the library, past Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum (huh?) and got chastised by Madam Pince, Arthur pressed his hand to where Francis' lips had touched his skin.

Apparently, he would be going to the blasted Yule Ball. Maybe he'd even enjoy it.


	4. Snow

**High School AU, although that's not really relevant to the plot.  
**

 **Alistair Kirkland-Scotland**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, Himaruya Hidekaz does.**

 _Payback time_ , was Francis' first thought that morning when he opened his window to see the backyard covered in white. It had snowed last week and okay, he'd started it. But he hadn't poked fun at his boyfriend in a while and had enlisted the help of his closest friends, Gilbert and Antonio.

Basically speaking, they'd buried Arthur in snowballs. His little English boyfriend wasn't one to just let things slide and gotten his revenge by putting snow in his gym clothes bag. How evil. Francis had no clue why he was even attracted to him sometimes. Alas, he loved him anyways.

That didn't mean he'd let Arthur have the last word though. It had happened before around Halloween, but he wasn't afraid of another prank war. It was all in good fun after all.

Unfortunately, the snow hadn't lasted long enough to retaliate the next day. So he'd been forced to wait until the weather cooperated. Nevertheless, he had a wonderful, diabolical plan to put into action now. Better even, it was Saturday. No school could stop him.

* * *

He'd stolen the plan from the internet, to be honest. Yet it was the best he found, so Francis, Gilbert and Antonio snuck out (he was in desperate need of aid) and into the Kirklands' normally well-groomed proper English-style garden and built a snowman. They'd been caught midway-through by Arthur's oldest brother Alistair, who ended up volunteering. A good thing he did, because he also dragged the other siblings plus baby Peter (the twelve-year-old boy who wanted to become Lord of some micronation in the British sea) into it. While two were distracting Arthur, their masterpiece took form.

"Masterpiece" was a term that could only loosely be used to describe the giant snowman. They'd almost entirely moved the snow from the yard to under Arthur's room's window in the second story. It was a bit of a dangerous endeavour, but they managed to place a blob of snow with a hat and face (not missing the obligatory carrot nose, of course) through Arthur's room when the two Kirkland siblings still in the house convinced him to make a cup of tea.

Gilbert had taken a camera with him and was figuring out the perfect angle to film Arthur's reaction. Meanwhile the rest was attempting to hide.

It didn't take long, Francis' boyfriend wasn't one to leave his room often. Perhaps they should've closed the window again, but the immediate sight of Arthur's face when he was confronted with a snowman at the height of his nose was absolutely worth it.

"Bloody hell!" If they hadn't been giggling before, everybody was in hysterics now. Antonio was pointing at Arthur's red face and sobbing from laughter. Francis couldn't stop snickering.

Of course Arthur had spotted them. No one had counted on him snatching a bit of snow from their abomination and forming it into a snowball, though.

Antonio, directly in Arthur's snowball's path, got hit in the face. It escalated from there. Suddenly, everybody was involved in a battle except Gilbert, who was still recording the events while cackling. That changed quickly when Peter Kirkland threw a ball that hit the camera.

* * *

The snowman had been decimated by the time all participants were exhausted. "Well, that was a mighty fight." Alistair shook his head, his broad Scottish accent coming through in his words. "Who wants hot tea?" At the invitation, nearly everyone made it inside. Only Francis and Arthur were left.

"I know that was your idea, Frog." Arthur's cheeks had reddened from the cold, his breath being visible.

"You're not wrong", Francis responded. It may not have gone entirely as planned, but the prank had been fun.

Arthur had come closer in their miniature conversation. Francis grinned and happily took his boyfriend up on his offer of a kiss. That was, until he felt cold wetness seep under his woolly hat. Francis promptly separated from him, hands shooting up on his head.

Arthur had shoved snow under his hat. That asshole. His hair looked like shit when wet.

"See you inside, Frog." Arthur dashed into his house.

Francis felt like an idiot. An idiot in love.


	5. Fantasy AU

**Magical Strike/Super/Business-Fantasy AU**

 **Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine, it's Himaruya Hidekaz's**

* * *

Being super was never as easy as films and books made it seem. Hardly any supers were even battling or being villains. Most just used their powers to help go about their day. Supers made up approximately a fifth of the world's population and powers were as varied as their wielders.

A lot of them were, frankly, useless except in certain situations. Being able to see five seconds into the future, for example. It could buy a few live-saving seconds, in traffic for example, but other than that, worthless.

And then there was Arthur and the _Superb Super Jones Foundation & Son _firm. The founders had been supers with business-related powers (yes, that was a legit thing) and put it to good use. The firm had expanded, hired more supers, and gotten handed down the family line. It covered all areas of trade (from cosmetics to gym equipment to cereals) nowadays and was a global player in economy.

Arthur was one of their more recent employees. He considered himself a morally grey super, mostly in for his own gain. (That's why he was working at the "Super Factory", as uncultured swine jealous of supers tended to call his workplace.) As per tradition, he had chosen an alias: "Mr. Salaryman". His superpower was just being a fantastic nine-to-five worker. People had doubted his super status in the past, but like every other super, he could transform into his alias at any second if he so wished. Arthur's outfit was the lilac suit designed by _Superb Super Jones Foundation & Son_, plus glasses he neither normally wore nor needed.

Working for _Superb Super Jones Foundation & Son_ was as entertaining as you'd expect. While everyone was super, everyone was also under strict regulations and surveillance at any and all times. "The Company President's Son" (function and alias at the same time) Alfred F. Jones was responsible for the latter part.

The kid attempted to fool everybody he came across into thinking he was a hero, but Arthur bet he was a candidate for the next supervillain. He wasn't a psychic, but the Brit predicted atrocious work conditions for _Superb Super Jones Foundation & Son _employees when Jones Jr. actually became the President of the firm. They already got a taste of that at the end of the year.

The time around Christmas and between the years was the busiest by far, like in most corporations. It was bad enough most of them had to work through the holidays, yet the last announcement by _Superb Super Jones Foundation & Son_'s Junior President topped everything.

Jones stormed into the meeting room, flipping his hair with the violet streak. He didn't waste a second on a greeting, telling his inferiors they were expected to work daily twelve-hour shifts each day during holiday season and wouldn't be paid any more than usual.

There was the predictable outrage that died down quickly at being faced with their contracts. Jones hadn't counted on one factor though. That factor was transforming right as Arthur was thinking of it. Or rather, him.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy was a fairly average member of _Superb Super Jones Foundation & Son _staff. Until he turned into his super form. It seemed the guy responsible for hiring new employees didn't properly check _what_ kind of super he was.

His outfit consisted of a pink dress, pink ribbons on both his way-too-long hair and dress, plus he had a megaphone in his hand.

His self-proclaimed arch nemesis is: "The Company President's Son". And his alias?

"Magical Strike".

And since he has a speaking alias, it means his superpower is going on strikes. Like right now.

Armed with a megaphone, he screamed at Jones until the whole department came by. Even "The Colleague", a usually simple Dutch man, sided with "Magical Strike" on the Holiday matter. "Confused Old Grandpa", (Kiku Honda, a truly confused, not-that-old Japanese bachelor whose job was to judge products and how the customers might think of them) briefly stumbled into the conference room, exciting immediately after being assaulted by the shoe of what's-her-face.

Arthur meanwhile had also been forced to pick a side. As someone who valued peace and free time to read and drink tea, the choice was rather easy. So he was helping "Magical Strike" take down "The Company President's son" while under the guise of "Mr. Salaryman".

He'd never confess, but he'd always been envious of how bold Francis Bonnefoy could be. Whether that was in real life or as "Magical Strike". Arthur did not have that kind of bravery (or masochistic tendencies, it depended on which way you looked at it).

* * *

Their efforts were worth it. Jones temporarily suspended all of them (firing 99.999 percent of his employees wouldn't do him any good), until the new year. In the end, no one had to work at all and went to celebrate at the nearest bar. Arthur enjoyed letting his guard down for once and chatting with people that weren't his mum (the weekly phone calls were so annoying) or his cat, who essentially was a therapy animal by now.

"I didn't think you *hic* had the guts, Mr. Salara*hic*-Salararary-Arthur", although he also had to deal with drunken people now. (He was past that. Arthur's teenage years were reason for shame.) That drunk person was Francis, however. He'd transformed back hours ago, satisfied with his mini-rebellion. He had every right to be.

Unceremoniously and unannounced, the French super dropped into his lap. Somehow Arthur didn't quite mind it.

"What do you mean by that, Magical Frog?"

"You stood up fo-*hic*for your rights! Ag*hic*-Against Joneseses…", Francis trailed off.

"Like I'm working on Christmas and New Year", Arthur scoffed.

"I'm*hic* proud of you", the Frenchman kept on hiccupping. Arthur petted his hair, listening a bit more to Francis' drunken ramblings until he noticed the other man fell asleep while still in his lap. He'd just have to accept his fate as a human pillow. One that stood up for his rights. Arthur would've never done that without the beautiful person sleeping against his chest. That thought sent warm and giddy shocks through his body, but for now, he was content with the situation and pride that still surged through him because of earlier.


	6. Ice Skating

**Nyotalia College AU**

 **Alice-Nyo! England**

 **Marianne-Nyo! France**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, it belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.**

* * *

"Alice?", Marianne asked her girlfriend.

"What is it?", the English major was curled up on the armchair in their shared dorm. She'd been rereading _Wuthering Heights_ and taking sips from her beloved Earl Grey when Marianne came back from classes.

"Can we go on a date?"

"I don't see why not. It hasn't been "Just the two of us" outside in a while", Alice smiled, "did you make any plans yet or where's this coming from all of a sudden?"

"Nothing set in stone, dear, but I saw the ice rink is open again and I thought we could go skating together." Marianne frowned when she realized Alice wasn't keen on the idea. They'd been together for nearly two years now and Alice was expressive.

"Marianne, I'm sure that's a lovely thing to do, but there's a problem."

"Do you not like it? We can always do something else." The Frenchwoman was a bit disappointed. She'd looked forward to skating again, she hadn't done so since high school. Also, the thought of skating hand in hand with Alice on ice and getting a warm hot chocolate afterwards plus cuddles (or more) was adorable.

"No, that's not it, I just", Alice blushed, "I can't skate."

"You're twenty-three and don't know how to ice skate?" Marianne failed to keep her disbelief out of her voice.

"No. I've always wanted to learn, but I never had the time I guess." Oh. Wait a second, fantastic and romantic date plan developing in brain-

"I can teach you!" It would be _perfect_. Helping Alice learn (which offered the chance to have more dates at the ice rink in the near or distant future), holding her while she was taking her first wobbly "steps" on skates and so on… it was going to be so cute!

"Are you sure? Don't you think it might be difficult to learn now? I don't want to keep you from having fun either." But Alice sounded interested at least.

"It's obviously going to be harder than if you were younger, but you'll be fine. I promise it'll be funny enough teaching you. I haven't gone in a few years either, I'd take it slow either way." This was working… then a brilliant thought popped into Marianne's mind.

"We can even stop by your favourite bookstore afterwards. You know, the one that makes great tea and hot chocolate too."

"When were you thinking we should go?" Score! Marianne was a mistress of persuasion techniques.

* * *

Alice was going to regret this, she was sure. Marianne, however, had a beautiful smile that made her eyes light up when they arrived at the ice rink two days later. Right, that was part of the reason she had agreed. It obviously made her girlfriend happy, and Marianne had tried her best to compromise, too. The evening part of the date (cuddling with tea for Alice and hot chocolate for Marianne in Alice's favourite bookstore) better be worth the bruises she was bound to get from falling on her behind.

She was waiting for Marianne to buy their tickets and their allowance to lend skates. Marianne came back, helping her choose skates her size. Alice struggled even more than initially expected when putting them on, while the Frenchwoman made it seem effortless, as if it were a pair of sneakers. This was going to be hell.

Walking on the blade to the rink itself wasn't as horrible as she had anticipated, but the moment Alice had actually dreaded came with stepping on the ice. Even though her girlfriend was right behind her and giving Alice enough leeway so she could catch her, five scary steps and she went straight from vertical to horizontal. _Ow_.

"Are you okay, Alice?", on a different occasion, Alice would've found Marianne fretting annoying. Right now, she was glad for the hand and kiss pressed to her lips.

"I'll live."

"Alright, maybe I went the wrong way about it. See, don't step, glide. As if it's a V.", Marianne performed the motions as slow as possible, while Alice watched carefully. "Do you want to try again?" The Frenchwoman skated one or two quick rounds, getting back into the movement and fluid enough to pass by Alice slowly. The Englishwoman had held onto the wall in the meantime, taking the hand her girlfriend offered.

"Look, I'll hold you now. We'll go really slow, too. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." She let go of the wall, allowing Marianne to take the lead. Alice nearly stumbled when Marianne was too fast for her, although they were dawdling compared to some speeders on the opposite end. Alice felt a bit of shame when she realized she was the only beginner, and most of the children raced past her.

She quickly got over it though, and tried her best to keep up. They made it half-a-round when Alice fell again, but much softer and better caught than before.

"Look!", Marianne beamed. "You made it this far! That's really good for your first time."

"Thanks." It wasn't so bad, really. Alice could gladly overlook the fall, bruises and cold when she saw her girlfriend's pleased and proud face. "Do I get a kiss? I deserve it for this improvement."

Marianne didn't even respond, her mouth was occupied with other things. Yes, Alice could get used to this.

* * *

Two hours later, they were ice cold and exhausted. Alice had fallen more times than she decided to count, but it had been more fun than she thought. They brought back their skates and left for the bookstore as Marianne had promised.

With a cup of her favourite Earl Grey tea she hadn't made herself in hand and a promising book, Alice cuddled up to her French girlfriend. Marianne, as always, nursed a mug of hot chocolate. She'd put the book she picked on the table, in favour of hugging Alice.

"Did you have fun?" Marianne was quiet, placing a kiss to Alice's forehead after the question.

"It wasn't so bad." Alice would much rather be right where they were, though.

"So you'd go ice skating again?"

"Not until next year", Alice saw her girlfriend open up her mouth, "and by that I mean next December. But it went better than I guessed."

"That's the best I could have hoped for, I suppose." Marianne laughed a bit, and Alice joined in.

"You know, I think we should go home. It's dark out." Alice picked up her book, and saw the Frenchwoman nod and do the same.

They paid for their new additions to the mini library they owned (also categorized like one, courtesy of Alice) and went home.

The rest of the evening was spent reading, cuddling, and going to bed earlier than usual due to exhaustion. Neither of them would have it any other way, though.


	7. New Years' Kiss

**Canonverse, New Year 2000. Based on that strip/episode "Crossing into the Year 1000", which every FrUK lover should know. Features background GerIta.**

 **Also, Happy Birthday Russia!**

 **TW: Mention of Death, Religion, War and the Apocalypse.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, Himaruya Hidekaz does.**

* * *

 **30** **th** **December, 1999**

"The world is ending!", Japan was freaking out. The last world conference of the year took place in Russia-the nation wanted to commemorate his birthday, should the world truly end the next day. America had gotten wind of it and arranged jets to fly them over on the thirty-first. He wanted to go out with a gigantic bang, apparently. Now everyone slightly awkwardly stood there at Russia's birthday party, and Japan had been exposed to America's plans for what had the potential to be the last day ever.

For the countries, death was a foreign concept, nearly. Prussia had survived dissolution in 1947 and had even been invited to the gathering. (He was in the process of draining any beer supply Russia had been considerate enough of his guests to provide. Not that France could talk, he was on his fifth refill of a wine he'd gifted Russia decades ago. Still untouched to this day. The vodka lover had no taste in alcohol.) Rome, Germania and the ancients excluding China had faded away, but France would never forget their fight against the aliens, when Rome's singing made Italy laugh and saved the world, although the old man should have been dead millennia ago.

Now their near-immortality threatened to end somehow. Or that's what the younger ones thought at least. Germany had been the recipient of Japan's announcement and reacted just as shocked. Young nations, so naïve. France bet some planned going to confession or praying all night, if they had to party the next. America just never took no for an answer.

France was lost in his musings when England stepped out from behind, coming to a halt by his side. They stood in silence at first. Both thought the same and were aware of it.

"Do you remember?", England's question was unnecessary, but it rang out anyway.

"I was convinced I was going to hell. One doesn't forget this fear easily. Stupid me." France shook his head. He had been scared out of his wits, and known that God did not take in murderers. Or gluttons, vain people, or proud ones. It was a terrifying prospect, burning in purgatory for eternity. The priests had fooled everyone, or maybe they had been fooled themselves.

France was mildly surprised at England raising one of the bushy eyebrows at him. "You truly thought the apocalypse was coming?"

"Of course, everyone did. The priests were talking of it years in advance. I lost count of how often I attended church through that age. More than weekly for sure. Did you not?"

"What I _thought_ was you were using the end of the world as a reason to conquer me while knowing it wouldn't happen. I suppose I shouldn't have overestimated your cunning. Not even you could have come up with a scheme as this." France felt insulted, but he could see where England was coming from. He was begging him to let him conquer, because it was something he always wanted to do before the world ended. Then it didn't. Must have seemed like France was screwing with him.

"I am not that diabolical", France's voice was a bit softer than intended. "Do you know who told America this would be one of the last days on this earth?", he changed the subject.

"Probably some loons like Scientology or Mormons or Jehovah's Witnesses. How should I know? The kid believes everything", England scoffed.

"I wonder where he got that from", France couldn't resist teasing his ancient enemy. While he didn't take the mortals seriously this time around, there was still a slim possibility and who knew, maybe he ought to annoy England whilst he still could.

"You, certainly. How many rumours have I fed you in the past?", oops, the Frenchman had set himself up for failure on that one. England was right, unfortunately. The man could spin a mean story. France recalled them inventing propaganda against Germany during World Wars I and II. So much of it was still stuck in their citizens' minds. It was better to have England on his side, admittedly.

"I never kept count." He'd give the Brit a bit of leeway. Just in case.

The pair lapsed into semi-quiet again, when Russia passed by them. "England, France", the birthday "boy" addressed them. "How are you liking the party?"

"Uh, enjoyable. Yes, exactly. Nice and calm. Nothing like what the horror of America's celebration tomorrow will be", England said. Phew, hopefully Russia would take it.

"I am glad you share my opinion, England. Thank you for your gift. And you, France? The book you gave me as a present sounds promising, I hope I will have the opportunity to read it, da? But how are you faring?", ugh, of course not. At least it seemed opting for a written work instead of wine had been a good choice. (He hoped the second part implied Russia believed the masses and not that he was trying to spare France's feelings. He'd taken a while with the pick and it had been expensive.) When France spotted now-even-drunker Prussia, he knew how to redirect their host's attention.

"I must agree with England, as unbelievable as it is. Until now, the party is nice. I suggest you take care of our friend on the table to your right, though. It wouldn't do if he vomited all over the tablecloth." Russia slowly turned to take a glance at a singing Prussian, beer bottle in hand, dancing on the table.

"It is good tablecloth. I will remove Prussia at once. Thanks for bringing it to my knowledge." The Russian gave them a nod and walked in the direction of the inebriated albino. France let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. This was common when he dealt with the cold nation.

"America's party will be a nightmare. That much wasn't a lie." England sighed.

"And my agreement with you was the truth, for once." It was France's turn to sigh.

"The fireworks will be terribly noisy and flashy."

"The food will either force me to hunger all night or I will leave with additional kilograms." Both sighed.

When Russia's attempts at pulling Prussia down from the table resulted in the host being thrown up on, nearly half of the nations including France and England took their leave.

* * *

 **31** **st** **December, 1999**

The plane ride had been unspectacular, America's gathering to either party through the world's end or welcome the new year, century and millennium was something else.

As France had predicted, the food was subpar and fatty. Approximately ninety of the nations were drunk. Many made out with whomever they came across. (France swore he spotted an awkward Germany and enthusiastic North Italy kissing. Aw.) Austria had acquired a piano, somehow, and played depressing melodies one could only hear if they pressed their ear to the instrument. The pop music blaring through America's stereo was deafeningly loud, France thought he was at a concert for a minute. He checked his watch. _23_ : _39_ , it read. A little over twenty minutes left. He spotted England, nursing a flute of champagne, looking distinctly out of place. He waved him over, not bothering to yell.

The man came up to him, a chuckle leaving his lips. France could not hear the words, but centuries of practice enabled him to read his lips. _Do you want to get out of here?_ France nodded vigorously.

They exited the house, hearing a few sounds they could have done without, saw Norway pull on Denmark's necktie for some reason or another, and passed by China complaining about his age. (While France and England couldn't understand what he was saying, seeing China holding his back and making faces spoke volumes.)

It was finally a bit quieter outside of America's mansion (with that size, it had to be one), but the music still blasted through open windows and the streets were filled with amateur pyromaniacs. America had already set up fireworks on the roof, which he'd bragged about all through the travel.

The air was cold as it normally was in late December, but cleaner than inside. (America had insisted on artificial smoke _and_ a real fire in his fireplace. France was stunned there was even one.) He looked up at the stars. They were the same as they had been a thousand years ago in the field located somewhere in England, when they had held each other through the supposed last night of the world.

"Can you believe it?", he asked his companion, filled with wonder.

"What do you mean?"

"That it's been so long. A millennium, thousand years."

"We've changed so much since then", England stated. He was right. They'd been mere children then, clutching at each other in the face of death. The world had kept turning still, and the tides of time had carried them through lively phases. Their hundred years of war, the imperial age, fighting over Canada and other colonies across the globe. Wars over belief, America's independence and France's revolution, wars because of Napoleon, the scramble for Africa, the _Entente Cordiale_ and the World Wars. Europe semi-unified in peace. For over fifty years now. Wars may have marred their history, but it wasn't everything.

"And yet it feels like it hasn't been more than a day." France gave England a smile, who returned it. Why did it seem as though the universe was shifting this very second? Just a hundred years ago, this would have been impossible. Standing so close to each other, adults hardened by what history had thrown at them. He wanted to say something, but at the same time, he feared he would shatter the fragile atmosphere surrounding them.

It happened anyways. The host dragged them inside for the countdown, making everyone get up to the roof to see the fireworks. America thrust two glasses of champagne at them both, racing to a makeshift stage.

"All right! It's a minute until 2000! Let's welcome the year with a BIG BANG!", America screamed into a microphone. The nations cheered. "Or with a kiss, if you want! It's supposed to be as much good luck as one under the mistletoe you know!" France had entirely forgotten that tradition. (And he called himself nation of love. He was ashamed.) Why did that sentence make him hyperaware of England's proximity? Or that England was actually coming closer? Was he imagining that?

France barely processed the yelling. _10, 9, 8…_

His heart began beating uncontrollably. _7, 6, 5…_

England stood right in front of him. _4, 3…_

It was incomprehensible, but he leaned in and his old enemy mirrored the actions. _2, 1…_

What France later remembered was how it felt more than **natural** that when fireworks lit up the sky in countless colours, he kissed England like his life depended on it.

* * *

In the night between 999 and 1000, two children held each other while lying in a field in England, scared of the future. In the night between 1999 and 2000, two adults kissed each other on a rooftop in Washington D. C., eager for the next thousand years, knowing just how far they had come in those they had just spent.


End file.
